In the end,
Mars is just a rock.
A rock covered in sand,
Made of worn,
Rusty,
Iron.
That said,
It can't control me.
Only I can,
And that's a point of pride.
I sting as much as I will,
I pinch as much as I will,
And I'll sleep in your sandals
As much as I will.
Thankfully,
I often choose to be benevolent.
Only I can choose my morals,
And that's a point of pride.
I may be passionate,
I may be persistent,
Obsessive,
Loyal,
And manipulative all in one.
But I am that and more.
If Mars is meant to restrict me,
It has failed miserably.
Can the same be said
Of it's rusty sand?